<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Battered and Bruised by pfnp</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27045367">Battered and Bruised</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pfnp/pseuds/pfnp'>pfnp</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Y Gwyll | Hinterland</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:20:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,373</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27045367</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pfnp/pseuds/pfnp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This is based on series 3, episode 3 as a bit of an alternative to what happened when Tom found Llew Morris and Bryn, and a continuation before episode 4. Because I'm an absolute sucker for angst, pain and suffering. M for language and themes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The floor of the station they were working on was empty apart from the two of them. It was dark, and the thin strip lights barely offered anything in the way of illumination, but they were still all Tom could see reflected in the windows, blocking out the world beyond.</p>
<p>He was sitting at his desk at one end, in front of his laptop, Mared at the other. Between them was a chasm of desks and chairs, monitors dead to the world, papers in piles, keyboards silent. He knew why she was still there, even though she insisted it was because there was still an incredible amount of paperwork to do, which was true, and her daughter was out anyway. He knew why she was still there.</p>
<p>He picked up his Styrofoam cup of coffee and took a sip, wincing as the far-too-hot liquid hit the tip of his tongue. He didn't know if Mared had looked up. She'd looked surprised enough that he'd offered to get coffee, let alone get the damn machine to work and actually come back with it. She'd tried to argue that she should get it and he should be resting but he'd insisted. He hated that coffee. But it was better than nothing right now, and the off licence was too far to walk. Especially in his state.</p>
<p>The cursor was blinking at him on the screen, an unbelievable amount of form filling waiting for him beyond it. It had to be done. Even after days like the one he'd just had. Especially after days like the one he'd just had. He put his password in, bringing up the multitude of windows all vying for attention. He heard Mared typing across the room.</p>
<p>She was still there because of what they'd said at the hospital. "He shouldn't be left alone for the next few hours, just in case." He'd heard them say it to her.</p>
<p>He cursed the fact she'd been there. If she hadn't… Well he probably would have just come back here anyway. He didn't think drinking an entire bottle of whiskey in his caravan would do the concussion any good. He needed something to keep him occupied. Keep his mind busy. Stop it from wandering.</p>
<p>Although he wasn't really sure why he was bothering.</p>
<p>The blows to his head, the kicks to his ribs, the shotgun in his face. None of them had been just that one step too far. If only he hadn't regained consciousness today. If only the man pointing the shotgun at him earlier had pulled the fucking trigger. If only the bullet from the gun he'd pressed into his own temple had been in the right chamber. If only.</p>
<p>He closed his eyes and ran his finger over the steri-strips above his eyebrow. The pain all over his body was more like a dull ache now thanks to the tablets that were sitting on his desk among the folders, papers and photographs, the blister packaging showing only two gone. He was tempted by more. He could just take the lot. Later on, with some whiskey.</p>
<p>But he knew he wouldn't.</p>
<p>He couldn't help the images as they flashed up behind his eyes. His daughters. His wife. Gwen. Spitting out his own blood on the floor of the cottage after a butt of a shotgun had been rammed into the side of his head. Blacking out. Coming to. Blacking out again. The armed response unit finally untying him. The realisation that he was alive. Still alive. Again. Somehow ending up in hospital. Being discharged. Coming back here.</p>
<p>He hadn't typed anything. Hadn't even made to move his mouse. His fingers were tingling too much. He realised his breath was too shallow, he couldn't quite catch it. His broken ribs grated. He tried to undo the top buttons of his shirt but his fingers weren't doing what he wanted.</p>
<p>He realised Mared had stopped typing. That all he could hear were his own, ragged breaths in his ears.</p>
<p>He stood up and walked as quickly as he could out of the room, arm wrapping itself round his ribcage as the pain shot through him. He wasn't sure if he heard her say his name.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mared had seen Tom take a sip of the coffee he'd brought back for them both, put it down, type something and then nothing. She glanced up every now and again but he was just sat there, staring not at his screen but past it.</p><p>She wasn't surprised. It had been a hell of a day. A search for a missing boy that culminated in Tom getting frustrated, going out on his own, and paying for it again by, this time, stumbling across the man who had taken the kid. She'd been part of the team that had gone up to the house when they'd figured out where he was. She'd gone in after the armed response unit and seen him, wrists bound, covered in blood. He shouldn't even be here, at work, after that, but he'd been examined, patched up and released and she had her orders to keep an eye on him. It was only mild concussion, and the rest of his injuries weren't severe according to the doctors, but he shouldn't be alone just in case. It had been a traumatic experience. For some reason he'd insisted on coming here rather than going home and resting, so she'd driven him back in silence, occasionally catching a glimpse of his broken face as she drove through the quiet, darkening streets of Aberystwyth.</p><p>She paused as the shock washed over her again. She was used to seeing victims of violent crime - it came with the job. But seeing Tom Mathias of all people in that state wasn't an image she'd forget soon. When he'd been cut free and before the ambulance crew had moved in, she'd sat with him. He slouched against the range cooker where he'd been tied, eyes closed. She'd knelt in front of him, tried to get him to talk to her. To say anything. He hadn't even opened his eyes.</p><p>She looked up as something changed in the room. A noise. Tom was wrestling with the collar of his shirt, breathing far too fast. She saw him stand up unsteadily and walk into the nearest meeting room.</p><p>"Tom?"</p><p>The door had slammed shut behind him, she wasn't sure if he'd even heard her. She went after him and pushed the door open. The lights were still flickering into life as he paced back and forth, breathing far too quickly, fingers still working at his shirt buttons.</p><p>He caught sight of her and shook his head, eyes bright behind the deep purple bruising, sweat just starting to bead at his hairline.</p><p>"I can't breathe Mared."</p><p>"Yes you can, it's ok." She grabbed his elbow and steered him gently into the nearest chair, undoing the top buttons on his still bloodstained shirt. He'd put it back on after he'd been examined at the hospital, probably force of habit. She suggested he'd got changed after she'd brought him back to the station but he refused to get the spare clothes from the boot of his car that had been driven back by an unknown, uniformed chauffer. He hadn't seemed to notice the blood.</p><p>"I can't breathe."</p><p>She was trying to keep a level head, despite what Tom kept saying, despite how he looked. Arms wrapped around his chest. She half wondered if a broken rib had punctured his lung and if she should call an ambulance. She needed to try and get his breathing under control first and then she could rule that out later.</p><p>"You can. I know it feels like you can't, but you can." She knelt in front of him and grabbed his trembling hands.</p><p>"Breathe in, hold it for as long as you can, and breathe out slowly."</p><p>It wasn't the first time she'd seen a panic attack, which she assumed this was, but it was the first time it'd been someone so close, someone so unexpected. She knew he was an emotional man behind the hard faced façade, she'd seen it in interviews, how he talked to people, the passion behind the grim determination to find the right answers and get the right result that kept him at his desk when everyone else had left. But seeing it brought to the surface made her feel unsteady, like everything had changed.</p><p>Tom's eyes were screwed closed and he was at least trying to follow her instructions. She wondered how much pain he was still in as he tried to bring his breathing under control.</p><p>Slowly, too slowly for Mared's liking, while one of the lights still flickered above them and the clock on the wall ticked loudly onwards, Tom's breathing became deeper, more regular, quieter. She tentatively ruled out her punctured lung theory. But maybe they should go back to the hospital, just in case. He looked like he'd just run a marathon, sweat trickling down from his forehead, face pale behind the injuries.</p><p>"Ok?"</p><p>He nodded. She realised she'd been holding her own breath as she watched Tom and her hands were still covering his. She removed them quickly, sitting down in a vacant chair as Tom bent over, face in his hands.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He never thought he'd catch his breath. He thought he was going to die. That this was finally it. That just thinking about it had triggered it somehow. He wasn't sure if he wanted Mared to help him or just leave him to suffocate. Like he deserved.</p>
<p>
  <em>I wish he'd just pulled the fucking trigger.</em>
</p>
<p>He had his face in his hands, elbows propped on his knees, his body still trying to draw in enough oxygen to keep him alive despite his internal protestations. He hadn't realised her hand had been on his back, rubbing it in small circles, until it stopped.</p>
<p>"What did you just say?"</p>
<p>Oh shit. Had he said that out loud? Fuck. It was bad enough that she was here, that she'd seen him like that earlier. That all this was happening. He can't have just said that.</p>
<p>"Tom. Did you just say 'I wish he'd just pulled the fucking trigger?'"</p>
<p>His hands were shaking over his face.</p>
<p>"Tom."</p>
<p>He was halfway across the room before he realised he'd even got up, wiping the sweat from his brow as it trickled into his eyes. Trying to ignore the pain as it ricocheted around his body. The clock was ticking on the wall, the only sound between them. He stared at the window, trying to see past his own useless reflection to the sea he knew was out there somewhere. Willing himself not to put his fist through his own stupid face looking back at him. He knew a line had been crossed. He couldn't go back to how things had been before. He'd ruined it.</p>
<p>The clock was still ticking. It was too loud. He could feel it inside his head. Or maybe that was just the headache pulsating behind his eyes. Mared still hadn't said anything but he could feel her watching him. She'd heard him. There was no point denying it now. There was no point to fucking anything. He turned to face her, still breathing heavily. Arms dropping limply by his side. He couldn't look her in the eyes.</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>Now he'd gone and properly fucked it. He gone so far over the invisible line of social etiquette by admitting out loud that he wished someone had shot him in the face. Jesus. He immediately cursed himself, he should have kept his mouth shut and they could just go back to being colleagues in the office after another awful case. He wished his body hadn't just reacted so badly to everything he'd been putting it through, everything he was keeping bottled up and locked away to torture himself with. He wished he'd just stayed put and not gone out on his own this afternoon.</p>
<p>But it wouldn't have played out any other way. That was who he was. He couldn't rewind it now. And his single 'yes' was hanging in the air between them, echoing around the room.</p>
<p>They were still. Her, sitting in the chair, hands in a knot on her lap. Him, stood, staring at the grey squares of carpet.</p>
<p>"Tom. Look at me."</p>
<p>He couldn't.</p>
<p>"You need help."</p>
<p>He half laughed. "From who? You gonna help me? Why the fuck would anyone want to help me? What's the point? I don't need help."</p>
<p>"I'm not going to convince you. But someone needs to. Tom you need to talk to someone. This isn't healthy. You cannot go on like this."</p>
<p>"I don't want to go on like this. I don't want to go on at all."</p>
<p>He couldn't believe he was saying these things. That they were pouring so freely from him. It was the truth, but he'd got so used to burying that. Not saying anything at all. Giving away the barest hints of himself. The beating earlier had been the final straw, every injury inflicted finally breaking through the last of his reserves.</p>
<p>"That isn't the way you should be thinking. I know why you think you don't deserve to be here but you do. And I know no amount of me telling you this is going to convince you otherwise."</p>
<p>He had one hand on his hip, one shaking hand covering his eyes. He knew she could probably see the tears dripping down his cheeks. He didn't want to hear these things. He didn't want to be stood in front of his colleague, technically his subordinate, in tears and battered and bruised.</p>
<p>"If I take you home right now, I don't know what you'll do. I don't think you do, either."</p>
<p>He wanted to tell her to fuck off. To shout it as loud as he could, so his voice would rip his throat apart. He just wanted everything to stop. Just stop.</p>
<p>"Come with me."</p>
<p>She'd taken his hand. Drawn him nearer. He pressed his forehead into her shoulder, feeling her arms wrap round him. The sobs pierced him with pain through his broken ribs.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>